


ashes denote that fire was

by underratedkings



Series: mångata [4]
Category: TharnType the Series (TV), เกลียดนักมาเป็นที่รักกันซะดีๆ | TharnType: The Series (TV) RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Angst, Dragons, Enemies to Lovers, Falling In Love, Fantasy, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Past Child Abuse, Past Rape/Non-con, Witches, fae
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-24
Updated: 2020-04-24
Packaged: 2021-03-02 00:47:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,571
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23826322
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/underratedkings/pseuds/underratedkings
Summary: ....With all his heart and soul, Type hates. Hate is his drive, his teacher, and his purpose. It is his reason to kill.But perhaps, that is because no one ever taught him any different.
Relationships: Tharn Thara Kirigun/Type Thiwat Phawattakun
Series: mångata [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1669189
Comments: 15
Kudos: 181





	ashes denote that fire was

**Author's Note:**

> This story is part of a series and a universe I've created through that series. It can be read on its own, but I do recommend reading the other parts to understand more of the setting and lore involved-- especially if you are a fan of other BLs. Enjoy!

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The twin blades glinted in the moonlight, looking as sharp and dangerous as the gaze in Type’s eyes. His breath was even and silent, and his feet were bare, as shoes tended to make too much noise.

Type was an assassin; noise was his greatest enemy.

The mouth of the cave was wide, but oddly quiet. Typically, there would be some sort of noise, rustling, speaking, even just breathing. The absence of these alarmed Type a bit. Never the matter, Type was more than prepared for anything thrown his way. 

Type had been doing this since he was a child, given his first mission at the age of thirteen. He’d done it well, cleanly and without hesitation, just like he’d been taught. He went on following orders for many years, honing his skills, before finally veering off to follow his one true goal. The northern assassin clans had trained him well, but he had since taken his own path, forged his own mission through his raw hatred.

Type was a dragon-slayer. The only one left.

Having grown up around all species—Fae, humans, witches, so on—Type had heard different tales from across the land. This dragon took a queen hostage, that one burned a village to the ground, this one demanded sacrifice in the form of this and that. The tales were never pleasant, always ending in death and destruction. So, Type would slaughter them all.

Well, as long as there was payment involved.

The Dragon of Lin Peak, they called this one, and from the information he’d received, the beast was strong. It never caused any trouble, but it seemed its presence left a cloud of fear hovering over the nearby village. Hence, Type was to strike it down.

The deeper he got into the cave, the less it looked like one. He padded across a carpet, snaking around several seats and piles of firewood. There was even a bookshelf lining the far-right wall. However, there was no sign of life.

Type furrowed his brow, cursing silently. Surely, he’d had been lied to, or at the very least misinformed. This was no dragon’s lair! This must belong to some hermit, or maybe an elusive scholar living far into the mountains. Type sheathed his swords, fuming and dreading the trek back down the mountain in this cold, when suddenly there was a cloth pressed to his face. He tried to struggle, grabbing at the hands holding his face, but the initial inhale of herbs and who knows what else was enough to knock the fight out of Type. His muscles failed to keep him upright as his lungs forced him to keep breathing in the drug. 

Type hit the ground, his shoulder screaming in protest. It was as if his ears were full of cotton, sounds swimming in and out of his head, his limbs growing heavy, but he managed to force his eyes open long enough to see a pair of feet before him.

Then, Type knew no more.

….

The first thing Type saw was fire.

Prying his eyes open, fighting thought the pounding in his skull, he found himself before a fire pit. Forcing his body to move, he placed his hands on the ground—finding it soft with furs beneath him, to his surprise—and hauled himself upright. He almost immediately fell back again, a wave of dizziness and nausea creating a fog through his mind.

He felt like his whole body was made of lead, but soft as butter, every second a battle to not fall again. Shaking his head, he tried to rub his eyes clear. Once he was a bit more coherent, he found himself still in the dragon’s lair. Moving to try and stand, the rattling of metal caught his attention. He looked down.

A metal shackle was locked to his ankle, the chain attaching to the boulder behind him.

By the gods, he was a prisoner.

In an instant, Type’s mind was alert and on edge. His breath quickened, hands patting his body to find all his weapons and tools missing. His heart began to pound in his ears, blood rushing, sweat breaking out across his skin. _Not this, by the gods, anything but this._

“Like it?” Type almost leapt from his skin at the voice. “I had to make that chain just for you.” From the other side of the fire pit, Type saw a man approaching, bathed in yellow and red from the flames.

He was well muscled, wearing nothing but a pair of flowing canvas trousers, his broad chest and firm stomach on display. His large eyes and masculine features were framed by soft, dark hair, just long enough to curl around his ears.

Dotting across his face like freckles were small scales, maroon in color, glowing iridescent in the fire light. There were larger scales gathered at his elbows, following the curves of his body, trailing downward and disappearing beneath the pants.

“The dragon,” Type whispered, lips pulling into a snarl. The dragon raised his brows, looking down his nose at the slayer.

“The dragon-slayer,” he snarked in reply. Type attempted to keep his face blank, but his eyes widened a fraction. “Yes, I know all about you.”

With every word, the dragon stepped closer, and with every step, Type’s heart beat faster. His fingers dug into the furs beneath him, knuckles white with force. Type could feel himself trembling. The dragon was coming closer still.

“Do it,” Type spat through his fear, getting to his knees. He looked up, looking at the dragon with a fiery, manic gaze. “Whatever you’re going to do…just do it!” The dragon was almost on top of him. “Do it! Just do it, what are you waiting for?!” The dragon bent down towards Type, and the slayer squeezed his eyes just, breath coming fast, bracing himself best he could.

His rushing thoughts, his gasping for air, were all silenced with the gentle sound of wood on stone. Type opened his eyes.

A bowl, filled to the brim with stew, was on the ground in front of him. It was fresh, still steaming.

Type sat, frozen, staring at the meal. He stared long enough that by the time his mind had begun to work again, the dragon had sat by the fire, a few feet from Type, fixed his own bowl, and spooned a large helping into his mouth.

“What the hell is this?” Type spat in a whisper, as if the bowl before him was the greatest of insults.

“Rabbit,” the dragon answered simply. “My traps did well today.” He ate another heaping bite, cheeks bulging. Type’s jaw was still dropped in disbelief. They sat in silence until the dragon finished his portion, sighing in contentment.

“If by chance you were curious, my name is Tharn,” the dragon—Tharn—said. He seemed almost bored. “Do I get to know yours?” Type finally closed his jaw, keeping his lips firmly sealed and his eyes steely. Tharn scoffed. “I thought not. That’s alright, I already know it.” He smirked. “Type.” He said is as if he were savoring it, rolling it down his tongue and past his lips. Type tensed. “Oh, yes. You’ve murdered far too many of my kind _not_ to have a reputation—"

Type smacked the bowl away, splattering the stew all over the room.

“Murdered?” Type bristled. Finally finding his bearings, he stood, unsteady on his feet but steadfast in his determination. “Your kind are monsters. Wherever you go, death and destruction are left behind.” Type was getting heated, emotions building quickly. “I hate dragons, I hate dragons more than anything! You and your kind are a stain, a _cancer_ upon this land, a disease that I—”

Fast, faster than Type could track, Tharn was on him, his forearm across his chest, pinning him to the stone behind him. He was not bothering to be gentle, either, his arm bruising the skin beneath it, the scales on his elbow digging into Type even through his leather tunic. Type grabbed at the arm, his hands useless. Gone was the dismissive air, replaced with barely contained fury. Those eyes, shining gold in the light, were blazing into Type’s soul.

“Watch your words, dragon-slayer.” His voice was low, almost a growl. “Tell me: how many of my kind have you slain that lived like myself? That is, dragons that never caused trouble, had no crimes attached to their names, lived peacefully. How many _innocents_ would you say you’ve killed?” Tharn paused. “But, of course, in your mind, existing is crime enough.” Type couldn’t answer, couldn’t fire back through the lump of fear in his throat. Tharn leaned in closer, their noses almost touching.

Type didn’t want to hear, he wanted to cover his ears and shut his eyes and pray to the gods that this was all a bad dream. But he was frozen yet again, the power exuding off Tharn taking hold of him with no way to break free.

“I want to ask you a question, Type,” Tharn said, his tone less aggressive but almost patronizing. “I do not want your answer now. No, I want you to think about it. Because my question will force you to rethink everything you think you know about me, about my kind. If you want to find the answer, the right answer, you’re going to have to… _expand_ your mind. See, you can not kill me, not like this. You’re hardly any sort of threat without a weapon in your hand. I, however, have more than enough power to kill you with my bare hands; break you in half, crush you flat, burn you to an ash, you name it. So, here is my question.”

Tharn’s next words were slow, deliberate.

“Why is it that you are still alive?”

….

**||||\ |**

“Shit!” Type cursed as the small stone he used to carve his tallies cut into his finger. He dropped the rock, sticking his injured finger into his mouth to suck. He pulled back to look, finding it nothing to concern over. Type sighed, leaning back against his tallies.

The past six days had been surprisingly uneventful, despite being a dragon’s prisoner. Tharn was, frankly, a boring person. He would go out in the day, hunting and gathering, before returning to the cave to cook. It had taken three days and nights for Type to cave and indulge in the meals Tharn made. He figured if he wanted to kill the bastard, an empty stomach would not be of help.

Tharn would read quite often, offering Type books at times to keep him occupied. He stopped, however, when Type threatened to throw whatever book given to him into the fire pit.

That was their typical repour. Tharn would attempt niceties, usually over their supper, and Type would respond with harsh words and spitting insults. He’d eat his food with a spite only he could manage, throwing down his bowl and rolling over in his furs, back to Tharn, once he finished. Tharn would only sigh, collect the dishes and head to the river to wash them.

Type could only wonder how much the dragon could take before he snapped.

Footsteps from outside the mouth drew Type’s attention, and he spotted Tharn, entering the cave with a large bag slung onto his shoulder. Type didn’t recognize it. He set the bag down by the fire, sitting as he grabbed a bowl and began pulling things from the bag; herbs, vegetables, even some fresh cut wheat. Type was, admittedly, curious.

Tharn made tea after grinding down some herbs and dried flowers, throwing this and that into the pot to cook for dinner. Soon, the cave began to smell mouthwatering, and Type did what he could to keep his eyes down. His stomach protested.

Soon enough, a bowl was slid his way, fresh vegetables floating in a clear broth. Type snatched it up, slurping from the spoon, ignoring the burn of his tongue.

“Must be good tonight,” Tharn commented, faking an air of nonchalance.

“Scaly bastard,” Type snarled back, busying himself with his soup. But Tharn just shook his head.

“Monster, disgusting, scaly bastard,” the dragon listed off, eyes glinting in the fire, “I’ve heard all these before. You’ll need to think of some new insults to keep me entertained.” Type didn’t expect this reaction, eyes groaning wide and darting around as he tried to think of something quickly.

“Ugly reptile,” Type threw back, knowing full well Tharn was anything but ugly. Nonetheless, Tharn smirked at him, looking a bit impressed.

“Very nice,” he complimented, sound every bit as patronizing as he looked. They ate for a while before Type chimed in.

“Where’d all this come from? Finally turned to stealing, did you?” Type snipped, nose in the air, in attempt to hide his nosiness. Tharn didn’t even look at him.

“An old farmer,” Tharn said, stirring his own meal around a bit. “I sometimes cast a protection spell for him, on his crops. Keeps away any pests. He always gifts me some of his harvest, despite my protests. He’s a kind man.”

A protection spell? So, the dragon knew magic, but used it for elderly farmers instead of concurring cities? Unless he was lying, of course…

Tharn interrupted Type’s trail of thought.

“What? Not going to suggest I threatened him? Ate his children, perhaps?” Type, again, tried to make his brain work faster than it wanted.

“You wouldn’t,” Type replied. “What I’ve seen, you’re far too soft for something like that. More of an overgrown lizard, really.” Type sniffed, turning away a bit. “To think, they thought you so powerful.” Type expected Tharn’s gaze to turn dark, perhaps even snap, give a display of power like he had the night Type was captured. To the contrary, Tharn’s eyes did grow dark, but with an unexpected heat, smirk turning mischievous.

Tharn placed his bowl to the side, eyes not leaving Type, and began to crawl forward, fingers dragging across the cave floor deliberately. His bare torso showed strong, lithe muscles moving with grace and control, like Tharn was a tiger waiting to pounce on its prey. The firelight created ripples across his smooth skin.

Type’s eyes widened as Tharn grew closer, the latter’s face low. Soon, he was all but in Type’s lap, his face trailing up Type’s body to his face. His hands sneaked past, finding home on the floor behind Type’s hips.

“Then maybe it’s time I…demonstrate my skills.”

His face was so close to Type’s, but not like before. There was such heat in his gaze, Tharn’s tongue darting out to wet his lips. Type felt like his whole body was on fire, blood rushing to his cheeks as his mind raced but simultaneously froze. Was Tharn about to kiss him? Do _more?_

But Type didn’t move away. He just sat, Tharn’s handsome feature distorted, he was so close. The gold of his eyes seemed to melt, then harden, again and again, constantly moving and shifting. Type was entranced.

Finally, a loud crack from the fire made Type jump, tearing his gaze away and turning his head to the side. Tharn huffed a laugh, the breath ghosting across Type’s skin. He leaned into Type’s neck, taking a long breath before pulling back.

Type was still wide eyed and awkward, not exactly knowing what just happened. Tharn returned to his soup, and Type laid down and rolled over on his furs, back to the dragon, as per routine. How he wished he could disappear right now.

“Ai’Type,” Tharn called after a while. “Do you remember the question I asked you, the first night you arrived?” Silence. _“Tyyyype._ I know you’re not sleeping.” Type hesitated.

“I remember.” Tharn gave a pleased sound.

“Tell me—what ideas have you concocted?” Type huffed and sat up again. “I can’t release you; you would try to kill me immediately. Killing _you_ is the safest option. So, why do you think I have not killed you?”

“Well, for one, you could want information,” Type began to list. “If any of my clan came for you, you would know our tactics. It could be for ransom, as well, which I can assure you my people would not pay. I’ve not ruled out the possibility that you—”

“There’s a simpler answer you’re avoiding,” Tharn cut him off, standing to sort his new foods into his stores. “And I’m willing to wager you already know it’s the truth. You just refuse to consider it.” Type didn’t answer. “Say it, Type.” Tharn turned back to his prisoner. Type refused.

“Say what you refuse to acknowledge,” he repeated, stalking closer. He kneeled, staring at Type who hadn’t taken his gaze from the floor. After a long silence, Tharn said it himself.

“I’ve kept you alive, fed you, clothed you,” Tharn urged, “because it’s the right thing to do.”

There was a long while where neither spoke. Tharn continued to stare down the slayer, waiting, perhaps hoping for some acknowledgment, some change in his demeanor. When there was none, Tharn seemed to find the silence was answer enough.

“Can you even consider it?” Tharn asked as he stood again, walking to his books for his nightly reading. “That a dragon can have morals? A sense of right and wrong? I imagine that’s…difficult for you.”

He left it at that, selecting a book from his shelf and sitting to read, leaving Type where he sat, surrounded by silences and uncertainties.

….

**||||\ |||**

Tharn came back late that night, a young doe slung over his shoulder. As much as he wished he could just transform and fly the thing back, he didn’t to give his dragon-slayer companion more ammunition to fire at him. So, he’d trudged up the path, cursing his own soft heart.

Padding into the cave, he threw the doe down by his food stores, rolling his sore shoulders. A whimper caught his attention.

Over on his furs laid Type, thrashing against some invisible force that held him. Sweat coated his skin, his brow furrowed as he cried out. His hands were curled into his chest in an attempt to protect himself.

“Please…” he whimpered, sobbing in his sleep. “No…Pa, please…” Tharn ran to Type, placing a hand to his forehead. No fever. A nightmare, then.

“Type,” he said softly, shaking his shoulder.

“Help me…Pa, help me!” Type cried, tears leaking from his tight-shut eyes.

“Wake up, Type!” Tharn said louder, beginning to panic. Type fought against his hands, pleading with the unseen evil, eventually leading Tharn to pull the slayer up and into his arms, hugging close. Type’s arms immediately wrapped around him, burying his face in Tharn’s neck.

“Hush now, Type,” Tharn tried to comfort. “It’s alright, Type, it’s just a dream. Wake up for me.” Finally, the sobs began to fade off until it seemed Type was lucid. Without warning, Type’s whole body tensed, and he pushed away, catching only a quick glimpse of Tharn’s face before throwing a punch.

The hit landed on Tharn’s cheek, not enough to bruise but more than enough to sting, Type’s skin cutting on his scales. Tharn let out a sound of surprise as Type scrambled away from him, pressing himself against the stone. Tharn turned back to him, anger rising.

“Type! I was helping you!” But his anger died as he didn’t see the usual fire and hatred Type typically stared him down with. Instead, Type was trembling, arms wrapped around himself, looking scared, desperate. He did find the strength to meet Tharn’s eyes, however.

“I didn’t ask for your help,” he said, in his shaking voice. As much as Tharn wanted to help, to gather him back into his arms and tell him he was safe, he knew it wasn’t the time for such things. So, instead, he stood and walked away, getting a head start carving the deer.

Despite the dull ache in his cheek, Tharn felt progress had been made. Something happened to Type, he decided, to make him this way, fueling his hatred of dragons. Perhaps if he could get Type to open up to him, he could change his mind. Perhaps a time would come where Tharn could convince Type he was not a monster, and he could release Type without risking his life.

Tharn hoped so.

….

**||||\ ||||\ ||||\ ||||**

Type wouldn’t say he _liked_ Tharn. That would be too far. No, he had just come to respect Tharn as someone he could have a conversation. He was still a disgusting, overgrown lizard. But he did make for good conversation.

Type hated to say it, but the two had developed a sort of relationship the past few days. It was still a relationship based on insults, mostly of Type’s making, but Tharn was never deterred. Often, he’d laugh it off, asking Type if that was the best he had.

It was…nice. They had an understanding.

Until they didn’t.

….

It was so clear, to Type.

_It was so dark, Type could barely see anything at all._

_The rope was rough, digging into his wrists._

Type couldn’t stop crying, pleading, begging for someone to _help him._

_The only sound he could hear over his sobs was water dripping from somewhere._

It was so cold.

_Footsteps approached._

_“Be good for me, won’t you? My sweet boy? Won’t you have some fun with me?”_

Type cried harder, pulling against the ropes. Blood _dripped down his fingers._

“Help me! Please, Pa, save me!”

_“You’re perfect. My perfect little bride.”_

“Please, no, please! Stay away, stay away!”

_Hands on him, sliding down his skin, touching him all over._

“Tharn! Help me, Tharn!”

His throat hurt from screaming. Please, please, by the gods…

“Type! I’m here, Type! Wake up!”

Type felt himself pulled up, strong arms, safe arms holding him. Type grasped weakly at the shoulders he laid against, trying with everything he had to pull himself from that dark place. He breathed in a familiar scent, before letting it out in wails.

Tharn just held him close as he wept, shushing gently into his ear. Type’s whole body shook in fear and despair, leaning further into the firm chest. Why did these images still plague him?

Type felt Tharn’s heart beating, letting the rhythm be something for him to focus on. He tried to breathe following the rise and fall of Tharn’s chest, his own lungs heaving through his cries. Soon, Type felt his feet touch the ground again, and he could finally get enough air.

Unlike last time Tharn roused him from a nightmare, Type pulled back slowly, trembling terribly, face red and streaked with tears. He met Tharn’s gold eyes and found nothing but worry. The words left Type before he could think them through.

“Do you know?” he whispered. “Do you know…why I hate them?” Tharn didn’t answer. Type’s grip on his shoulders tightened, but Tharn didn’t seem to mind. He just waited for Type to speak, running a hand up and down his back.

“When I was a boy, when I’d barely seen ten winters,” Type breathed, “one of your kind took me. He lured me away, promising medicines, herbs…he kept me in his lair, tied down. It was so dark, Tharn, and cold and wet…he’d captured me…to be his bride.” Type forced out the words past the lump in his throat. He felt Tharn tense.

“He wanted to mold me, he would say. To make me perfect for him. So…he violated me.” Tears began to flow again. “I begged him, Tharn, I begged to him let me go. I cried out for help. But it went on for days, he kept touching me, and—and making me touch him—”

“Type!” Tharn exclaimed, pulling the slayer’s head back into his neck as he broke down again. “That’s enough, Type. You don’t have to say any more, that’s enough.” Tharn sounded close to tears himself, holding Type with a fierceness new to them both. “I’m so sorry, Type. You were just a boy. I’m so sorry.”

“Why?” Type cried, fighting weakly against Tharn. “Why do you help me?! Why are you kind to me?! I only hurt you! I insult you, I say mean things, I’m rude and angry! I—I’m pathetic…why? Why, why, why?!...why are you sorry?” Tharn only held him tighter

Neither could say how long they sat there, holding each other, comforting each other. It felt like hours had past when Tharn removed himself, standing to tend to the fire and fix some tea. Soon, the two of them were seated by the flames, needing the light and warmth on their skin to help wash away all the pain. They were nursing cups of hot tea, neither waiting for it to cool.

“There’s a reason,” Type suddenly spoke, startling Tharn. The dragon hadn’t known there was more. The thought was frightening. “A reason he chose me.” Without any further preamble, Type reached a hand toward the flames.

“Ai’Type!” Tharn exclaimed, alarmed, catching Type’s wrist before he burned himself. Type only looked at him, gently pulling his wrist free, and thrust his hand into the fire.

The skin, however, did not burn and peel and swelter like Tharn expected. Nor did Type make any sound of pain. The flames licked at his hand harmlessly, leaving no trace. Tharn swore his heart stopped.

“You’re a dragon.”

Type retracted his hand and lifted his tea again, hiding behind the cup.

“Half, I think,” he took a sip. “I don’t really know. My father never once spoke of my mother, I never knew her, and any time I asked, he would shut down completely. I didn’t even know myself until I was taken.” Type let out a humorless laugh. “Ironic, don’t you think? Or perhaps, poetic? I hate them so muc…it _ruined_ me…but I suppose I hate myself most of all.” Tharn abandoned his tea in favor of cupping Type’s face, forcing the slayer to look at him.

“You are not ruined, Type,” he said firmly. “You were hurt, senselessly, and that has filled you with hate. But what I have seen over the past weeks is that you can change, Type, you _have_ changed. If you can grow from this, let go of your hate—for me, my kind, for yourself—only then can you truly heal.” Tharn’s hands fell to cup Type’s around his cup of tea.

“Not all of us are like that, Type,” Tharn said earnestly. “One of my kind hurt you, and for that, I sincerely apologize. There are others, too, who do terrible things. But the same can be said for humans, or Faes, or so on. Please, Type…do not judge the whole for the actions of the few. Judge based on the individual.”

Type didn’t know what to say, so he didn’t. He just stared into Tharn’s gaze, each word like an arrow to his heart. He had lived this way for so long, was he truly able to change? Did he deserve it?

“Type,” Tharn all but whispered. Type focused back in, seeing Tharn’s gaze had fallen lower than his eyes. “Do you trust me?”

Silence.

A breath.

“…yes.”

The only warning Type got was a hooded look before a hand was on the back of his neck, pulling him into a fierce kiss. Type froze while Tharn wasted no time, kiss Type with passion and hurry. For a while, Type sat and let himself be kissed, eyes open, as soft lips moved against his. He felt himself start to move with Tharn, the dragon pulling back to look at Type. Their eyes met.

When they met again, they both moved, Type fully returning Tharn’s kiss. It was all hot and fervor, hands moving here and there, caressing what they could reach. This was a battle; Tharn kissed him thoroughly, his tongue slipping through Type’s defenses when he pulled the latter into his lap by the hips. Type gripped hard at Tharn’s hair, causing him to gasp and Type’s tongue to strike back, taking everything he could. Soon, Tharn was back in control with a well-placed nip to Type’s lip that sent chills racing down his spine.

Type moaned loudly; it was everything he wanted, too much, and not enough all at once. Tharn tasted of smoke and spices, pulling Type impossibly close. When they were able to part, needing air, Type could feel the blood rushing through him, lighting up his senses as his chest heaved. Tharn, nowhere near finished, ducked under Type’s jaw to mouth along his neck.

“Tharn,” Type rasped out. “I want you.”

For once, Tharn was the one to freeze, his lips unmoving on Type’s skin until he moved away to look Type in the eyes.

“Type…” Tharn whispered, unsure.

“Please,” Type said, looking away, then looking back to Tharn. His arms wound tighter around his neck. “Just…just you and me. Take me, Tharn.”

A moment passed between them, just hot breaths and stares that spoke a thousand words. Tharn leaned in, pressing one, gentle kiss to Type’s mouth, no more than a press of lips. The second they separated, Tharn gripped Type’s hips and spun him to the ground, right into the fire pit.

The glowing coals were warm against Type’s skin, the wood scattering around them. Tharn was above him, surrounded by flames on all sides, licking harmlessly at their skin and hair. Within seconds, the heat had burned their clothes away, leaving new expanses of smooth skin Tharn immediately ducked to map with his lips.

Type’s head slammed back as Tharn licked down his torso, his vision completely bathed in the glow of the fire. He breathed hard, every sound escaping him seeming to bring Tharn’s lust higher and higher.

It was hot and quick, the flame adding some erotic element Type would have never considered. Tharn was everywhere, licking over his navel, across his hard cock, over his hip bones. It was all so overwhelmingly good.

Tharn took his time, despite both their obvious impatience. He prepared Type mercilessly, making the moment Tharn’s cock slid into him almost unbearable. Everything was almost hazy to Type, drunk on pleasure, putting control and his body in Tharn’s capable hands.

Type was rewarded with multiple blinding climaxes, Tharn seeming to focus solely on Type’s pleasure, prying moans and screams from his lips without care. By the end, Type’s chest was heaving and his thighs, trembling, feeling completely and utterly claimed.

Tharn cleaned him with gentle, sleepy hands, pulling Type close on their bed of hot coals, the flames having long burned out. They both knew there was much to discuss, and neither knew if this would change anything.

However, Type decided silently, it could wait until morning. Pressing a discreet kiss to a scale on Tharn’s cheek, he let his eyes fall closed, his body more than grateful for the rest.

….

Type woke slowly, comfortably, and to the smell of fresh congee. Opening his eyes, he noticed he had been moved back to his furs at some point during his rest. Turing his head to the side, he spotted Tharn stirring the pot, steam billowing around him. He wore a new pair of trousers, considering the fate of their clothes the night before; Type could feel he had been dressed as well.

Tharn turned, noticing Type’s eyes were open.

“You’re up,” he observed. He grabbed a bowl and began scooping the congee. “How do you feel?”

“Terrible,” Type muttered, straight-faced. Tharn scoffed.

“Lies, if last night was any indication,” Tharn shot back. “You seemed…more than satisfied.”

“Shameless reptile,” Type shot back, fighting the blush in his cheeks, pushing himself up to sit.

Type froze. He looked down.

The shackle on his ankle, the thing that had kept him stuck there for weeks, was gone.

“Tharn…?” The dragon did not answer, finishing scooping congee into the second bowl before slowly setting it down. Tharn turned to Type, large eyes looking misty.

Suddenly, Tharn was in Type’s lap, arms wrapped tightly around him as though he was afraid the slayer would vanish. Tharn was trembling, and Type, wide-eyed and confused, hugged him back. He was unsure what else to do.

“I’m sorry, Type,” Tharn said, voice shaking. “I can’t do it. I can’t keep you here, not like this…I care about you too much.” Tharn pulled back to look at Type.

“I don’t understand,” Type managed, speaking more out of instinct than coherent thought.

“This whole time, Type…I’ve been falling for you. I didn’t…I didn’t know…but after last night…I’m sorry.” Head down, Tharn stood, heading to his bookshelf. Snapping his fingers, a red glow appeared then dissipated, and Tharn returned with an armful of Type’s things; his leather gear and swords.

“Type,” Tharn said, setting the things down in front of him. He sounded close to tears. “…you’re free now, Type. You can leave…if that’s what you want.” Tharn fell to his knees, as if he had no more strength left. He met Type’s eyes, and Type saw tears beginning to flow down his cheeks, glistening over his scales.

“You can go…but,” Tharn hesitated, shaking his head. “I shouldn’t ask this, but…I’m sorry, I’m too selfish not to.” Tharn reached out, taking Type’s hands in his. “Stay, Type, please. Stay here with me. Don’t leave me, Type. Please?” He was crying harder now, his voice breaking as he sobbed.

“I love you, Type.”

Type’s heart ached; part of him, a strong part, wanted to take Tharn in his arms, hold him, kiss him, promise to stay. Type felt a lump form in his throat as he forced himself to remove his hands from Tharn’s and stand.

“Tharn,” he said softly. “You know I can’t stay. I need time, I need to figure out…what I feel. And I cannot do that here. You know that.” Tharn only cried harder, weeping as he knelt before the slayer. Type took a deep breath, shoving down his emotions.

“I’m sorry, Tharn.”

In an almost numb fashion, Type dressed in his black leather, sheathing the twin blades across his back where they belonged. It felt strange, after all that had passed, but so, so familiar. He felt whole again.

Tharn had not moved, and Type knelt before him. Those gold eyes he loved to stare at so much looked so sad.

“This is what’s best, for both of us,” Type whispered. After a moment of thought, Type leaned in and pressed a final, profound kiss to Tharn’s lips. Type forced himself to pull away, doing his best not to look at Tharn in the fear that seeing him, Type would relent. He then got to his feet and strode out of the cave and into the open air.

Type did not look back.

The congee, made for two, had gone cold.

….

The home of the northern assassin clans is one of the most closely guarded secrets of Type’s people. Following the path he knew by heart, Type trekked along a steep mountain ridge, an endless wall of stone on his left and an even longer drop into the valley on his right. Type’s steps were confident and sure.

Soon he’d reached a dead end, the way dropping off into nothing but darkness, for the sun didn’t reach this place. Glancing around to ensure no one was watching, Type stepped off the edge and fell, plunging fast into darkness.

It never failed to make his heart race.

His fall was broken by the hidden pool, splashing into the icy water, knocking the air from Type’s lungs. He swam to shore, pulling his self out and shaking off what water he could. He made for the entrance of the cave where the wards stood strong and impenetrable.

The magic reached out to Type, sensing the swords on his back—forged from the steel of the mountain’s core. The wards let Type pass.

Traversing through the cave system, giving Type time to dry, he finally broke into the light, reaching the hollowed center of the mountain, where his home was carved into the stone.

The clan was alive and bustling, the training grounds full of hopeful younglings, swinging their staffs and training swords about, practicing their forms. The fires were lit, and the smell of roasted meats and spice filled the air. Type inhaled it greedily.

As Type walked through the square, many greeted him, welcoming him home. One of the Fae he had trained with patted him on the back, congratulating him on a mission well-done. Type just smiled and shook his head. One of the elders offered him some fresh fruits along his way; he thanked her profusely, remembering his propriety.

“Oi, Type!” Type turned with a smile.

“Pa!” The man in question was limping toward him, his bad leg only slowing him down a fraction. As he reached his son, he proceeded to smack him across the head. Type cried out, almost dropping his fruit, rubbing the spot in pain.

“You’re late!” his father cried. “You had us all worried, boy!” Slinging an arm around Type’s shoulders, he pulled his son up and toward their home. “Now, tell me all about it! Ah, I see you were talking to young Techno! You two were always close, and I’ll tell you what; that Fae may not be much a fighter, but his new weapons are something else—” He continued on like that, and Type just smiled, happy to be home—even if he felt like half of him was missing.

“So, tell me about the mission!” They finally entered their home, Type throwing down his satchel and fruit onto the table. “Out east, right? Jin Peak?”

“Lin Peak,” Type corrected, and his Pa made a sound of acknowledgment.

“Right, right, that dragon the townsfolk were so worried about.” Type sat at the table “So, tell me about the beast! You were gone quite a while, but you seem fine now! You get caught up in another job?” Type’s father rustled around while he spoke, fixing them both cups of ale.

“The job…was fine.”

“Well, you don’t seem all that enthused! Come on, son, tell me more! Was the beast terrible?” Type weighed his next words carefully.

“Pa,” Type said, softly. “Who was my mother?”

Type’s pa froze, the temperature in the home seeming to plummet. No one breathed for a moment, then his pa went back to the ale as if nothing had happened.

“It’s not important, Type!” he said cheerfully. “Don’t you worry about—”

“It is important!” Type exclaimed, standing. He had never pushed his father about this before. “It’s important to me! Pa…she was a dragon, wasn’t she?” His pa turned, the look on his face dropping. He seemed at a loss for words, but Type had plenty of them.

“While I was gone, I met someone,” Type said, unable to stop once he started. “And…I think I love him. He’s a man…and a dragon.” The silence that followed was stiff and unbearable. His father did not move for a long while, and Type waited.

“I forbid it,” his pa finally whispered. “I forbid it, Type. You are never to see that monster again, do you understand?” Type listened closely, but not to his pa. He listened to his heart, letting it say what it wanted. His pa was still talking. “They use magic to bewitch those they ensnare, son, whatever you think you feeling—” He went on for quite a bit until Type finally found what he was looking for. His eyes lit up with his epiphany.

“I know now,” Type said, more to himself than anyone else. “I know what I need to do.” Snapping from his trance, he lunged forward and hugged his father, stunning the man long enough for Type to grab his things he had only just set down. “Thank you, Pa. I love you!”

“Type, where are you going?!”

“Away!” the slayer called over his shoulder. “Don’t worry, Pa, I’ll be back one day! Probably!”

“Type!” But Type was already gone, sprinting away from his home and toward the back way out of the mountain. He dodged those out and about, breathing hard, but his chest was light and giddy, and his eyes were shining.

He left his home as soon as he arrived, but he did not feel any sadness.

Instead, he finally knew his path.

….

Claws dug harshly into Type’s back from behind, catching him totally by surprise. He yelled out in agony, the claws piercing straight through skin and flesh before ripping out, Type falling to the ground.

He had been traveling for almost three weeks straight, from Tharn’s cave then back to it, and he had been just outside the entrance when he was attacked. He had been excited, his guard lowered, and his attacker had struck hard and fast.

Rolling around, feeling blood begin to run in rivers, Type saw an unfamiliar dragon covered in sky blue scales bearing down on him. It was serpentine, its only limbs being its wings that had three long fingers at the joint, sharp claws tipping them like knives. They were dripping in blood, Type’s blood.

Rearing back, the dragon let out a column of fire, consuming Type, but leaving him with nothing but a few holes in his clothes. The dragon recoiled, surprised to see him alive and well, but shook itself from its stupor and bared its teeth, coiling up like a cobra, ready to strike.

Before Type could stand or the dragon could deal the killing blow, another dragon thundered into Type’s vision, covered in dark red scales that shone bright in the sun, glinting like Type’s blood that pooled on the ground. The dragon placed itself between Type and his attacker, standing on its back feet and roaring fiercely, spreading its wings in warning.

Tharn.

The blue dragon seemed to cower, bursting into white flames as it transformed back to its human form. A lanky man with a mop of curly black hair. Blue scales dotted his body. Tharn followed in suit.

“Llong,” he heared Tharn say in a dark tone. “What are you doing?” The dragon—Llong—started to stumble out an answer, but Type’s hearing was beginning to swim in and out, his mind racing. Where had he heard of this, a blue serpentine dragon?

A memory came forward, one he’d forgotten until now.

_Type sat in the pub, nursing his ale, the map he had received spread across the table, barely legible in the low, smoky light. Tonight, he’d begin his mission; he might as well indulge in a good meal in case this dragon was his match. That is, until his dinner was interrupted by a young man approaching his table._

_“Pardon me?” Type looked up. The young man was a witch. “Are…are you the dragon-slayer? The one they hired?” He was fidgeting with a large crystal hanging from a cord around his neck. He looked nervous, paranoid, constantly glancing around._

_“What of it?” Type asked, taking another swig of ale. The witch’s eyes lit up._

_“You are?” he asked. “Please, may I ask which dragon they’re sending you to kill? Please? Is it the Dragon of CloudCrest?” Type’s eyes narrowed. The boy seemed desperate._

_“No,” Type answered. “They’re sending me after a different beast.” The witch’s expression fell, his shoulders sagging in despair. They seemed to carry a heavy weight._

_“I see,” he mumbled._

_“The Dragon of CloudCrest,” Type mused. “Sit. What’s your name?” The witch did as he was told._

_“Tar, I’m called Tar,” he answered._

_“Tar…has that dragon hurt you? Is that why you’re so desperate to have him killed?” The witch hesitated._

_“…no one has believed me,” he whispered. “The Dragon of CloudCrest, the people think him a myth, since he stays hidden.” Type’s mug slammed onto the table, making Tar jump. The slayer leaned forward._

_“Tell me more about this dragon.”_

“Tharn!” Type managed to call, interrupting whatever the two had been saying. They both turned to him. “Whatever he says, don’t believe him.” He locked eyes with Llong. “Do you know of a witch named Tar, Tharn?”

“Yes,” Tharn said, not quite understanding. “He used to visit me, and I’d teach him magic. Why?”

“Your friend here didn’t like a desirable young witch visiting you,” Type began, using what energy he had left to spit the words at Llong. The dragon looked rather scared, being exposed in such a way. “So, he bewitched several men from the village to attack him…and rape him.” Tharn’s eyes grew, turning back to Llong.

“What…what have you done, Llong?” Type had never heard so much venom in Tharn’s voice.

Unfortunately, the swimming of Type’s senses had only gotten worse the more blood he lost, and he was not able to stay awake and hear more.

Type’s vision went dark, and he knew no more.

….

Type woke to soft cotton being tied in place around his body, his mind sluggish until he remembered just what had happened. The slayer’s eyes flew open, bolting upright and scaring Tharn out of his skin.

“Type!” he gasped, and Type immediately curled in on himself, the wounds on his back stinging like a swarm of hornets. “Easy, the herbs are still fresh. They’ll only burn for a bit, then they’ll numb the pain. Here, sit back.” Tharn helped guide him to the wall behind him, laying him back gently. They were inside the lair, the furs soft beneath them. Tharn’s hands fell to Type’s.

“Llong?” Type asked.

“He won’t be coming back. Ever,” Tharn snarled at the ground. “How did you know…”

“I met Tar the night I came for you; he told me what the Dragon of CloudCrest had done, and…well, it reminded me of myself. I was going to kill him after you.” Tharn looked away.

“I thought he was my friend, but—he hurt Tar, he hurt you…all because of me. It’s my fault.”

“It’s not, Tharn,” Type disagreed. “That monster was obsessed with you. His actions are his own.” Tharn nodded, and Type wasn’t sure that Tharn believed him, but he let it go for now.

“…you came back.” 

“What, did you miss me?” Type teased, smirking. Tharn sat in front of him, pouting.

 _“Tyyype.”_ Tharn whined, and Type laughed softly, before growing somber.

“I needed time, to know how I felt,” Type told him. “I went home, to see my father. And I told him about you. I knew he would forbid it, and I knew I would feel one of two ways.” Type looked into Tharn’s eyes, those beautiful golden eyes. “I could be relieved, as his command would give me an excuse to stay away, to forget about what happened here between us. But…that’s not what happened. Instead, I found myself wanting to defend you, I wanted to tell him he was wrong about you, about us. It made me realize…I care about you, a lot, and it makes me want to fight for you. It proved to me that, this love we have…it’s worth defending.” Tharn’s eyes lit up.

“What did you say?!” Type was startled.

“Oi, Tharn, you slug with wings! I just poured my heart out to you!”

“You—you just said you love me!”

“Oh,” Type looked away, bashful. “Did I?” Tharn hummed, leaning forward. “Well, then…take it as I’ve already said it.”

“Type!” Tharn deflated, pushing out his bottom lip. “Don’t cheat me!” He pulled Type’s hands further into his lap, and Type sighed. “Say it? Please, for me?”

“Fine, but I’ll only say it the once.” Type cupped Tharn’s face, bringing him closer until their foreheads were gently pressed together. His fingers had been itching to touch his dragon since he had left his clan.

“I love you…scaly bastard.”

Tharn’s eyes filled with tears before a smile spread across his face, hands finding Type’s hips to pull him even closer. He began to laugh, which then devolved into little sobs, tears flowing free down his cheeks. Type chuckled, wiping the tears with his thumbs across Tharn’s cheeks.

“Why’re you crying?” he whispered, but Tharn was too inconsolable to answer. “So soft…overgrown lizard…” They sat there for a good while, basking in each other, touching, just reassuring themselves and one another that they were really together again.

Type moved first, spreading his legs to pull Tharn between them and into a searing kiss. Tharn kissed back through his tears, overwhelmed with affection and love. Eventually, Tharn was coherent enough to take control, tongues on tongues, hips grinding into hips. The air between them got hotter, hands wandering further, groping what they could find.

The two made love again that night, several times if they were being honest, both starving for the other. Even when their bodies had been drained, they still found the energy to get at each other’s lips and necks, nipping and sucking, pressing soft kisses wherever they could reach.

When they finally did find sleep, they were exhausted and wrapped around one another, skin sticky with sweat. Their chests were pressed together, and their hearts were beating in sync.

….

Days passed and Tharn was pouting. Again. He watched with big eyes and thick lips as Type packed his bag to leave again, pulling the strap tight to ensure everything was secure.

 _“Tyyype,”_ Tharn whined, practically begging for attention. Type shot him a look.

“Quit pouting,” Type scolded. “You act as though you’re not coming with me.” Tharn huffed.

“I know,” he admitted, “but it’s reminding me of when you first left. And I didn’t know if I would see you again.” Type’s smile softened, and he walked over to wrap his arms around Tharn’s neck, kissing him softly. Pulling back, Tharn kept his eyes closed for a moment, reveling in the feeling of Type against him. He tried to duck back in, deepen the kiss, but Type turned his head

“We need to go,” he urged. Tharn squeezed his ass in retaliation. “Ah, Tharn! Shameless bastard!”

They finally made it out of the cave, bags slung across their backs. Tharn turned, making a few motions with his hands before the red glow of magic flowed across the mouth of the cave, sealing it shut. He turned to Type.

“Well, dragon-slayer,” he said, looking at Type down his nose. “Where shall we go first?”

“South,” Type answered, double checking that his compass was accessible. “We’ll head through the kingdoms of man, then down to the Fae. South of that, we’ll reach port and the ocean.” Tharn’s eyes brightened.

“I cannot wait to see the ocean.” They began walking, side by side.

“Eh, it’s big and salty.”

“You make something so magical sound so boring!”

“It’s a gift.”

“Along with that wit of yours. Thank the _gods_ you’ve been blessed with such a mind.”

“Oi! You’re just as bad, if not worse! Ugly reptile!”

“Ugly? You wound me, Type.”

“Yes, you’re practically bleeding out.”

“Shouldn’t you be kinder to your lover?”

“Perhaps my lover should have thicker skin. Or, more appropriately, tougher scales.”

“You’re hilarious.”

“I know.”

“…Type? I can’t wait to travel the world with you.”

“…me, too.”

**Author's Note:**

> Here we are yet again! Hope you all enjoyed this, I'm really having a lot of fun weaving this world together. 
> 
> This is part of a series, so if you're a fan of "Why R U the Series" or "2gehter the Series," I hope you'd go check out part 1-3 and that you'd enjoy them. 
> 
> Ah, yes, Tharn as a dragon, and Type is a half-dragon dragon-slayer. Ironic, how he turns out to be the thing he hates the most 👀👀 There was a lot I wanted to accomplish in this story, but by the far the silliest was...fire sex. That, admittedly, was a bit self-indulgent. 
> 
> Now that this series has dipped its toes into the LBC universe, where shall we venture next?
> 
> Please feel free to comment below, I'd love to chat! Until next time! Stay health and safe!


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